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“Captain!”
Percy steps out of his cabin, lifting a hand over his face, shadow stifling the brightness of a sun reflected sea. Some days even when the sun was dull the sea still had a distinct glorious brightness to it.
“What is it Frank?” He frowns out the glare, trying to make out the finer features of his quartermaster’s face.
“We’ve pulled a crate up,” The usually quiet voice is even quieter now, sort of gentle. It puts Percy on high alert. Usually when anyone in the crew got like this it meant something worse than a wreck or an attack, it meant they were worried about him.
“Why am I being troubled about a crate?” He levels a look at those dark eyes.
“There was also a bottle… addressed to you.”
He sighs, the weight of too many days without being at his home, with his home. Something he will never confess to his crew and something he will never show. Weakness gets you killed in these waters. Weakness gets others killed more.
“Leave the bottle in my cabin and get our sailing master to log the contents of the crates.” He looks out to his ship, her dark boards and blue sails practically glowing in the midday sun. The crew are mingling about, on their way to convince themselves another meal was in order. He loved these people, would pillage and plunder and be hanged for them. But he is exhausted. So tired. The last visit from Jason had left him unsure and entangled in his own thoughts. He is torn so completely apart he feels like the splintered mast of the last shipwreck they’d witnessed.
“And bring out the liquor barrels,” He smiles bright, brighter than the sea, “Tonight we feast.” The last part is said loudly for the convenience of everyone else on board. And the answering holler, the enthusiasm racing under the bow, is worth all the effort it takes to keep the smile, keep from sprinting back to his cabin and his message in a bottle.
Frank nods in acknowledgement, “Everything in order Cap.”
“Thank you, I'll be out to help prepare.” He smirks at his outfit, waving a hand down his body. “Better get into something more festive.” With a returning smile from his quartermaster he escapes to his room.
There, sitting on his desk, amongst maps, and his compass, and pens is the small glass bottle. An even smaller scroll sits within it, rolled tightly enough you could almost mistake it for a cigarette. He wastes no time in smashing the bottle against the edge of the desk. Before the paper can so much as flutter towards the ground he has it between his fingers, already unravelling. He doesn't care to savour the process, he is starved for the words within, the message being conveyed.
“I am safe my King. It is time to come home.”